


Wasted Words Of Angry Pain

by AnonAnton



Series: Wasted Words [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Depressed Castiel, Depression, Destiny, Gen, Mechanic Dean, Pre-Relationship, Questioning Dean, Suicidal Castiel, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 23:04:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonAnton/pseuds/AnonAnton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel's destiny has gone off course again (possibly because of one Angel's stress levels.) </p><p>The Angels must step in to ensure that Castiel survives and meets Dean under better circumstances. It seems there may be consequences to their complicated time line not going as foretold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasted Words Of Angry Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Probably riddled with errors! My apologies. 
> 
> Potentially huge levels of trigger warnings for depression and suicide. 
> 
> Probably works better if you read the first part of the series first, but not totally necessary.

The stuttering heartbeat of the man on the bed finally hit a regular rhythm. Dean felt the anxiety pooled in his gut ease slightly. He couldn't seem to get his hands clean where he kept rubbing them against his knees; his knees that were stained with the blood of the man on the bed before him.

His quick actions had saved this man's life not four hours ago. Kneeling on the bathroom floor of a Gas 'n Sip, using his own belt to tourniquet the flow of blood to the man's slashed wrists. The craft knife the man had used had been floating in the tacky cooling pool of blood that he had knelt in to rescue the man. That vision was never going to leave him. 

But, he felt relief. This man would live because of him. This man, who he had once sent flying on his ass because he had been thinking about pie and not looking where he was going, this man who he had spent four years wondering about how it would feel to kiss, this man who had sent him on a path of questioning his own sexuality, this man who's angry hair was slick his blood, this man who was lying close to death in a hospital room, this man who wasn't going to die today if he had anything to do with it. This man, who was starting to wake up.

An hour or so later Dean was allowed back in the room. A morose man looked back at him balefully. If there was recognition in his eyes, Dean couldn't see it. 

“So, you're the man who “saved” me?” he asked in a croaky voice. That voice did things to Dean. He remembered a sunny day and an angry man smiling ruefully at him as he stuttered about pie being the reason he'd knocked him down, and the man laughing quietly and saying it was all right.

“Er, yeah?” The man didn't sound happy. But then, six hours ago he'd tried to commit suicide, he supposed it was expected that he wouldn’t be gushing with gratefulness. The man was squinting at him as if trying to remember where he had lost his keys and Dean's face had the answers.

He looks away suddenly. “Leave. I couldn't even be allowed one thing, the one measly thing I wanted. You had to waltz in and ruin everything.” Tears were running silently down his cheeks, but his voice was steady, deep gravel, anger and unending pain.

“I- I'm sorry?” Dean stuttered. He didn't mean it. He was so relieved that this person was alive, and he didn't even know why. He'd met him twice now, and the man didn't even remember him, but he was over the moon that he was living.

“Just get out.” The man muttered quietly. “Go!” He roared when Dean didn't instantly move. “I don't want you here, I don't even want to be alive.” He quietly added, his voice cracking and his shoulders slumping as the tears flowed.

-

Dean got out of the taxi and paid the driver, still holding back tears. He hurt, his soul ached for the man who was left alone in the hospital. But he hadn't wanted Dean, he hadn't wanted life.

Dean slipped behind the wheel of his Impala, left at the Gas 'n Sip the night before. He drove to his new house, with an hour long detour waiting outside of the Real Estate office to collect the keys to his new home that he should have picked up the day before. Before he found a man bleeding out in a public bathroom.

Thank God for this office's Sunday opening hours. The tiny town he came from wouldn't have been open. His new city was much larger and grander and had heard of convenience. 

He pushed the door to his new home open. It smelt of cleaning products and new paint. It felt cold and hallow, tainted and accusing.

He spent the day putting his merge possessions in to the oppressive house, and exploring the city. That night he went and got very, very drunk and spent the night in the arms of a warm woman in her bed. He returned to his new house early enough to change his clothes and start his new job on time, head aching only slightly from the spirits and misery.

-

“Something has gone wrong again.”  
“Didn't I tell you to keep a close eye on those two?”  
“I needed a cigarette!”  
“You're a celestial being, you don't need to eat let alone smoke!”  
“I know, I know. I'm sorry. It's just- these two are stressful!”  
“Fine. Right. What's happened now?”  
“Emma gets born...”  
“What?!”  
“I know! It's far too early-”  
“Damn. Well… Oh, there's your problem. There.”  
“Really? I thought that that was how it was meant to go?”  
“Nope. Get that fixed right away.”  
“Okay.”  
“And no more cigarette breaks! Honestly.”

-

“Good morning doctors!”

“Morning...” The three doctors on Mr. Novak's case nodded at the new doctor, who was way too chirpy for that time of night, technically the small hours of the morning.

They stare at him suspiciously, but none of them have the inclination to tell the man to leave. They assumed he was from psychiatry, a department full of strange people who didn't really get out and about much unless a case like this required a consult. 

One of them began; “Mr. Castiel Novak, twenty-nine. Attempted suicide at approximately 23:15 yesterday evening by cutting longitudinally in to the blood vessels on both wrists. He has been given an emergency transfusion and had surgery to suture the wounds. The application of tourniquet to both arms by a by-stander almost certainly saved his life. That man is currently in the room with Mr. Novak. We have arranged Psych. to do an assessment, and we will almost certainly prescribe antidepressants. He is currently on IV antibiotics, but when he's conscious we'll start him on an oral course. Clearly, he is on suicide watch, so checks every ten minuets, until the assessment has taken place. I take it everything has been removed from the room that he could...use?”

They murmur their agreement. The psychiatrist piped up then. “We need to ask De- the by-stander, the man who saved Mr. Novak's life to leave, gentlemen.” The Doctors all stared at him. Why? The golden eyed man goes on to explain without needing to be asked. “There is a new study which says patients of attempted suicide may react badly when being presented with the person who intervened with their attempt to die. Professor Slodycze-Cukorka is very erudite on the matter. The patient may show violent tendencies and may in some cases be far more likely to make another attempt within weeks just by being exposed to their rescuer. That man must be asked to leave if we wish to save Mr. Novak's life.”

The grumbling subsided and the lead consult nodded his head. “So be it. Ask the man to go, but explain why.”

-

Dean didn't want to leave the man's side. He saved him. He wanted ensure that he stays holding on to life. But the study by a Professor Sloddy-something, seemed to say that if he stayed he'd essentially put the patients life in more danger than he would do by leaving. 

Dean got out of the taxi and paid the driver, trying to hold back a tiny smile. If nothing else, he learnt one thing staying with the angry haired man overnight in the hospital; his name.

Dean slipped behind the wheel of his Impala, and drove to his new house, with a two hour long detour waiting outside of the Real Estate office to collect the keys to his new home that he should have picked up the day before. Before he found a man bleeding out in a public bathroom.

Thank God for this office's Sunday opening hours. The tiny town he came from wouldn't have been open. His new city was much larger and grander and has heard of convenience. 

He pushed the door to his new home open. It smelt of cleaning products and new paint. It felt happy and welcoming and pleased to see him. It put a smile on his face.

-

Dean wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead as he fiddled with the oil pressure switch on a hideous old rusty heap of a car. Not much point mending it if anyone had asked him. The scrap heap would have been better. He was a little fed up being put on the odd crappy car they got in the doors instead of the specialist renovation and refit jobs for vintage cars that he had moved miles across country to work on, but he had only been here a week. He guessed he had to earn Rufus' trust before he could play with the big guns.

The next five minutes went past in a blur for Dean. 

He spots from the corner of his eye a guy with golden hair leaving the garage that he hadn't seen hanging around until that moment. That distracted him enough that he took a slight step out from under the hood of the car he was working on. He heard Rufus' yell at that moment and he looked up in time to see the huge red wreck that Doris had been working on rolling slowly, but inevitably towards him. With inches to spare he managed to jump out of the way. He could only look on with amusement as the car rolled steadily in to the wall of well organized car parts stacked on metal shelving. The almighty crash as nearly everything fell on the car was ear splitting. 

-

Castiel had been stuck in this God forsaken room for a week now and nothing had changed. It made sense it was God forsaken. He and his entire life were forsaken of God. He haddn't believed since he was old enough to understand the words the minister was saying in church.

He felt numb still, like he did the day that Naomi told him he was to be fired from the job he hated because his department had lost hundreds of thousands of dollars of investors money. They knew he hadn't lost it, or hidden the loss personally, but as the head of the unit, he was to blame. The police would be questioning him soon. But he didn't care. He didn't care about the police, or the money, or Crowley. Nothing mattered. He could have been gone from the earth seven days ago and no one would have noticed, and that was fine. All he wanted to do was to leave, not to have to care that he didn't care. No one would miss him, it would be much easier to be gone. There would be no police then. Nor would there be a mortgage he could now no longer pay. There wouldn't be job hunts. Maybe where ever you go when you're dead, he would be allowed to wear clothes he likes again, he could put his piercings back in. Maybe he'd be allowed to be him, who ever he was. Maybe he'd meet the man who knocked him down in the street the year he finished university. His last good memory.

He frowned. Why did he remember that? Why did he think that the attractive green eyed, pie obsessed man had been here, in his hospital room when he woke up?

Later a man came in and asked him questions. He answered some of them. Many he ignored in favour of staring at nothing. With a sigh the man got up to go, scribbling furiously on a pad in his hand.

With a sudden rush of emotion he hadn't felt in years he realised he needed to know if he was imagining the man. “Was there a man here? When I woke up?” The doctor looked surprised, and makes another note before answering him. “I believe so Mr. Novak, yes. I think he was the man who saved your life.”

A strange mix of curiosity and fury surged through him, leaving him shaking and missing the hollowness of the numbness he had felt before.

The doctor came again before lunch and put him on a course of antidepressants.

-

“I'm not sure this is right.”  
“It has become very muddy hasn't it. I'm not sure that putting two people on the right course has ever been this difficult before.”  
“Should we try to ensure that Castiel wants to live?”  
“I don't know… This isn't a point.”  
“I know, but maybe we just can't see it, the path is too confusing.”  
“You're right. It would be better to ensure he lives.”

-

Dean wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead as he fiddled with the oil pressure switch on a hideous old rusty heap of a car. Not much point mending it if anyone had asked him. The scrap heap would have been better. He was a little fed up being put on the odd crappy car they got in the doors instead of the specialist renovation and refit jobs for vintage cars that he had moved miles across country to work on, but he had only been here a week. He guessed he had to earn Rufus' trust before he could play with the big guns.

The next five minutes went past in a blur for Dean. 

He spots from the corner of his eye a guy with golden hair leaving the garage that he hadn't seen hanging around until that moment. That distracted him enough that he took a slight step out from under the hood of the car he was working on. The phone rang in the office, which he ignored in order to wipe his hands on a rag before diving back under the hood. He heard Rufus' yell at that moment and he looked to see the huge red wreck that Doris had been working on mere feet from him. He yelped and leapt behind his car, a little too late, the wing mirror clocked his elbow causing a lance of pain up and down his arm. He could only look on with pained amusement as the car rolled steadily in to the wall of well organized car parts stacked on metal shelving. The almighty crash as nearly everything fell on the car was ear splitting.

Rufus hung the phone up angrily in the office before yelling at Dean to hop in his permanently unfinished Road Runner. He was taking him to hospital.

\- 

One bruised funny bone later and Dean was in the lift back to the atrium and Rufus' waiting car. Clutching the bottle of pain medication, he was humming as the lift stopped on it's way down. 

Mr. Castiel Novak stepped inside.

“Er, Hey.” He said wanting to give the guy a small wave, anything to just acknowledge that the man who's life he saved, who he desperately wanted to kiss, who he had wondered about on and off for four years was in the same space as him, conscious and not dying. 

Castiel ignored him entirely.

-

Castiel sat in the waiting room, alone, in silence. They had wheeled him in in his wheel chair and left him to await having the stitches removed from his wrists. Ugly red welts hide under the bandages where his blood vessels had once been on show under the pulsing red blood pouring on to the floor.

He was being discharged later that day. With the antidepressants that the Doctor gave him earlier that day they thought he was safe to go home. He didn't want to take the antidepressants. He wanted to be able to end. To stop. To no longer care about breathing in and out. He didn't understand why everyone seemed so concerned that he should live. He intended to take the whole bottle of sleeping pills he was prescribed a year ago, but that he never used, the minute he got in to his home. 

A noise caught his attention, like wings flapping. He must be hearing things now. Maybe it's the antidepressants already having side affects after two hours. He looked up. A man with golden hair and golden eyes was sitting across from him in the waiting room. He was sure he had been alone when he arrived a few minutes ago.

“Picked this up in the shop downstairs earlier, but it's not really my thing. They don't sell skin mags in hospitals. Who knew?” The man threw a small book across the room and Castiel caught it on instinct. “I think you might enjoy it. Looks like you need a hobby to focus on.” Castiel looked down at the book. Bees; their habits and habitats. He looked back up. The man was gone. He assumed he must have been called in to a room in the clinic while he was distracted by the book.

It is fascinating. He didn't know bees were so important. But, even holding the book up long enough to read it seemed like too much effort.

-

Castiel waited for the lift to take him to the atrium and home and the bottle of sleeping pills, and quiet and death.

He still had the bee book in his hands. He was not sure why. He wanted to be interested, but the pull of nothingness was too great.

He didn't even register more than the murmuring of another person in the lift with him when he entered.

He tipped the taxi driver generously, entered his house and swallowed the whole bottle of pills.

-

“Damn, damn damn, damn, damn!”

-

Dean wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead as he fiddled with the oil pressure switch on a hideous old rusty heap of a car. Not much point mending it if anyone had asked him. The scrap heap would have been better. He was a little fed up being put on the odd crappy car they got in the doors instead of the specialist renovation and refit jobs for vintage cars that he moved miles across country to work on, but he had only been here a week. He guessed he had to earn Rufus' trust before he could play with the big guns.

The next ten minutes went past in a blur for Dean. 

An angry man pulled up in a beautifully restored classic black Cadillac, yelling about stupid men running away from bees making him drive in to other people. Dean noticed the smashed headlight and scratched paint work. He wondered across the garage to take a closer look. A moment later he spots a guy with golden hair leaving the garage that he hadn't seen hanging around until that moment. He took another step on to the forecourt of the garage to watch the man walk in the opposite direction to angry Cadillac man. The phone rang in the office, which he ignored in order to watch the man rave about bees. He heard Rufus' yell at that moment and he looked to see the huge red wreck that Doris had been working on almost on top of him. He yelped and jumped backwards. The corner of the hood smashed in to his elbow. He could only fall back to avoid being crushed while the car rolled steadily in to the wall of well organized car parts stacked on metal shelving. The almighty crash as nearly everything fell on the car and Dean was ear splitting.

Rufus hung the phone up angrily in the office before throwing car parts across the garage and gently helping Dean to his feet. Without a word Rufus stuffed Dean in to his permanently unfinished Road Runner. He was taking him to hospital.

-

Castiel sat in the waiting room, alone, in silence. They had wheeled him in in his wheel chair and left him to await having the stitches removed from his wrists. Ugly red welts hide under the bandages where his blood vessels had once been on show under the pulsing red blood pouring on to the floor.

He was being discharged later that day. With the antidepressants that the Doctor gave him earlier that day they thought he was safe to go home. He didn't want to take the antidepressants. He wanted to be able to end. To stop. To no longer care about breathing in and out. He didn't understand why everyone seemed so concerned that he should live. He intended to take the whole bottle of sleeping pills he was prescribed a year ago, but that he never used, the minute he got in to his home. 

A noise caught his attention, like wings flapping. He must be hearing things now. Maybe it's the antidepressants already having side affects after two hours. He looked up. A man with golden hair and golden eyes was sitting across from him in the waiting room. He was sure he had been alone when he arrived a few minutes ago.

“Irony, huh?”

“I'm Sorry?” Castiel answered.

“Well, I just picked this up in the shop downstairs earlier, it's not really my thing, they don't sell skin mags in hospitals. Who knew? Anyway, it's about bees, and then a God damned bee flew over to me and stung me!”

“Are you okay?”

“No! I don't know! I've never been stung by a bee before! What if I'm allergic!?”

“Let me have a look?” Castiel asked, despite not being sure he cared. 

The golden haired man stepped across the room and held out his arm for inspection.

“It's not swelling up much.” Castiel said, looking up at the man's face. He couldn't decipher his expression. He looked a little terrified, but didn't sound it. He couldn't work him out. “I think you'll be fine if you put some antihistamine cream on it when you get home.”

“Oh my God! Thank you so much! It means a lot to me, you don't even know! I was soooo worried!”

“It's er, okay?” He replied, thinking the man's reaction somewhat over the top. None the less he felt something. Good, perhaps, for having helped someone, even if it was just reassurance. 

The man threw the small book in to Castiel's lap. “Here, you have this, I think you might enjoy it. Looks like you need a hobby to focus on!” Castiel looked down at the book. Bees; their habits and habitats. He looked back up. The man is gone. He assumed he must have been called in to a room in the clinic while he was distracted by the book.

It is fascinating. He didn't know bees were so important. Holding the book up long enough to read it seems tiring, but maybe it would be worth the effort.

-

“He went a little over kill on that don't you think?”  
“Yes.”  
“...”  
“But, I think it's got the job done?”

-

Castiel stayed in the hospital an extra hour talking to the Doctor who prescribed the antidepressants. He actually listened this time when the man spoke about side affects and benefits of taking them. Now, Castiel is waiting for the lift to take him to the atrium and home and the bottle of sleeping pills. But, maybe he could forget about the sleeping pills. It had felt nice to help the bee man.

He still had the bee book in his hands. He wants]ed to be interested, the pull of nothingness is there, like always it seemed, but maybe it wasn't everything.

He hardly even registered the presence of another person in the lift with him when he entered but the man's voice gets through. “Er, hey.” He says. 

Castiel looks up and sees him. “You look a lot better than when I last saw you.” The anger bubbled up in him, it must have shown on his face; the other man recoiled. That emotion was quickly replaced, though, by a nothingness laced with mild interest.

“You were in my room when I woke up?” 

“Yeah, I, er, I was leaving. The doctors told me to go.” Castiel didn't feel sorry about that. But, he did feel slightly warm that he had an opportunity now. “I believe I owe you thanks?”

The man's face lit up in a grin, he seemed truly happy that Castiel had thanked him. “It was my pleasure man. I'm Dean by the way.” He held out his hand to shake. Castiel took it. 

“Castiel.” He responded and smiled at Dean. A tiny thing, but he remembered smiling at him before, when he was rambling on about pie, when his tail bone had been hurting, his chest warmed a little more. “I hope you, er, feel better soon, too.” He nodded at Dean's arm, held fast in a sling, his cut and bruised face.

“It's nothing man. Industrial accident.” He grinned again. “Just a bruised elbow. They checked me out for concussion, which took about an hour, but nothin' doing. So I'm good to go back to work. Nothin' a little pie won't fix.” 

At that he winked, and stepped backward out of the newly opened lift doors.

Castiel couldn't help it. He huffed out a laugh and felt a true smile stretch his features.

“See ya 'round Cas.” Dean said, smiling, before he turned and joined an older man waiting for him by the main doors.

-

Later, back in his home, having slipped in to jeans and a black t-shirt, after generously tipping the taxi driver, he curled up on his sofa with the book about bees, his piercings aching after being put back in after so long and thought of Dean.

-

“Are we good?”  
“I think we're good.”  
“Can I have another cigarette now?”  
“Oh for the love of-”


End file.
